Well do I recall the morn Ned and the girls left, dreaming of the adventures ahead. And where are they now? Ned gone forever (save for that grisly box), and the fate of my girls still unknown. I pray to the Seven that Lady Brienne of Tarth can find them, and exchange the Kingslayer as ransom!

And what of our home? Winterfell now burned and looted by the faithless Theon Greyjoy, and Bran and Rickon missing – I pray, not dead! Only Robb is left to me now, and he cannot forgive me for dispatching Lady Brienne with his prisoner…

My good brother Edmure visited my solitary chamber and asked what could he bring to ease my despair? “Send for wool” I said, “so I can make cloaks for the girls! If I have no occupation I shall soon run mad!” So he dispatched a dozen ravens to the Southlands of Malabrigo in quest of the precious Merino. But “Dark Wings, Dark Words,” the Maesters say, and so it was proved; the accursed birds returned bearing only the dreaded message: “Out of Stock!”

Hearing of my plight, our faithful Bannerman Ser Michael of the Arts & Craftlands came to my aid with armfuls of soft yarn: “Tis only acrylic, M’Lady, but p’raps will serve?” Indeed it will. (And much lighter on the Tully coffers, which are greatly strained of late by this wretched war!)

So I crochet in my lonely chamber – a Cherry Red Poncho for Arya, who is never still and will not abide ribbons and fussy closures, and a Rose Capelet for Sansa, to match the roses which bloom in her pretty cheeks. (I would make a cloak for Lady Brienne as well, but fear that even Ser Michael’s Vast Stores would not be sufficient to clothe the Maid of Tarth…)